Harbinger: Fate's Forsaken: Book One

by Shae Ford

  “Oh? What sorts of things?” Kyleigh said, looking slightly amused.

  “Storms.” Aerilyn’s eyes were serious. “People say clouds billow up from the waves and turn into squalls violent enough to flip a vessel. And then,” she waved her hand, “the storm gets sucked back down into the sea. It disappears … and so does the ship.”

  “There’s mist, too,” Jonathan added. “White fogs too thick to find your rump in. Ships sail into them, and they never sail out.”

  “Sounds to me like they’re just being careless,” Kyleigh said.

  Aerliyn frowned at her. “They’re not. The managers think it’s the work of a witch — that the pirates are being helped by magic. And of course Reginald thinks they’re making it all up.”

  “Speaking of pirates,” Jonathan cut in, “I hear they’ve got a knife-throwing game that’s completely legendary. If you lose, they feed you to the sharks …”

  Time slowly changed the Valley. It started as a warm, lively oasis — then the sun began to slide behind the mountains. Purplish shadows crept down from the summit and wrapped it up, silencing the song of life for moment at dusk. Soon the crickets’ chirping replaced the hum of bees, and strange new life began again. When the stars came out, Garron ordered that torches be lit, and the wagons rolled on in the ghoulish orange light. Most shadows melted away as they passed, but there was a great shade in the distance that never moved.

  As they got closer, Kael saw the giant shadow was actually a wall of trees. Their tops had been chopped into points and they were crammed so close together that he doubted if a breeze could fit between them. The wall was thrice the height of one of Garron’s carts. High towers jutted out from the corners, warmth glowing in their windows.

  The caravan rolled to a stop at a massive pair of wooden doors set into the wall. Garron signaled for them to stay back and approached alone. “Hail, Crow’s Cross! A caravan seeking entrance, if you please.”

  A torch bobbed into view as he spoke. It came out from one of the towers and floated along the top of the wall, bouncing until it was even with the caravan. “Hail!” a rough voice shouted back. “And who’s this I’m speaking to?”

  “Garron the Shrewd,” he replied, holding his torch up so that the watchman could see his face.

  “Well why didn’t you say so? I’ll lower the gate.” And the light bobbed away.

  A minute later, the large doors creaked open. Armored men stood guard as the caravan passed through, their mouths stuck firmly as their eyes scanned over every detail of the carts.

  The second they were inside, the watchman signaled again and the doors slammed shut. He propped his fingers to his head in salute. “Nice to see you back for another season,” he said to Garron. The light from his torch made his grin look slightly monstrous. “Sorry for all the extra swords. We’ve had bandits try to break in, recently.”

  “Really?” Garron said as they followed him through a series of winding streets. “I don’t think we’ve come across a single outlaw.”

  The watchman snorted. “That’s probably because they’re all busy going after Crow’s Cross. They’ve been disguising themselves as merchants, you know. Just yesterday a whole lot of them put black paint on their faces and tried to pass as desert folk. It nearly worked, too — except one of them wiped the sweat off his brow and gave himself away. Hard to explain your skin coming off, isn’t it?”

  They parked their carts in a large, open square in the center of Crow’s Cross. Several other carts and stands were gathered in a ring, illuminated by the fires of the men guarding them. Kael noticed every one of the guards was wearing a tunic with a seal on it. He recognized the sun of Whitebone and the crossed sickles of the Endless Plains. There were a few men with wolf heads on their tunics, and he tried to stay out of their sight.

  “I think you’re all settled, here,” the watchman said cheerfully, and Kael noticed his armor was simple leather: there was no emblem on his chest. “Now, do you have rooms for the night?”

  Garron nodded. “I wrote the inn a week ago.”

  “Good, good. A few years back it would have taken a month in advance to get rooms. Ah, well, the markets just aren’t as full as they used to be.” He held out his hand. “Got to be getting back to my post, I’m afraid. Safe journey to you.”

  “Yes.” Garron shook his hand. “And do stop by tomorrow. Get something pretty for your wife.”

  The watchman grinned again. “Will do. Thank you, sir!” He touched his fist to his chest and marched away.

  While a few men stayed behind to watch the carts, everybody else followed Garron to the inn. The air was cool and smelled faintly of smoke, in places. Their boots echoed loudly as their heels struck the cobblestone and bounced off the houses. Kael marveled at how many people managed to fit in one place: their homes were crammed so close together that they shared a wall with their neighbors.

  Hidden among the darkened windows and sleepy streets was an extra large, extra tall two-story house. It sat by itself at the end of a filthy alleyway. The nearby homes had their windows shuttered tightly against the light that spilled from its dirty windows, and their doors bolted against the people who staggered from it.

  For, while the rest of Crow’s Cross was sleeping peacefully, the Rat’s Whiskers Inn seemed to have just woken up.

  The front door was painted red and hung slightly crooked — as if it had been ripped from its hinges on more than one occasion, and nailed back by someone who was already several rounds into his ale. The second Garron pulled it open, a blast of noise whooshed out. People laughed, shouted, pounded their fists on the table, cheated each other at cards and sloshed the contents of their tankards all over the floor. The air smelled of roasted meat and warm bread — along with a few less-inviting odors. Kael got separated from the group when a rather fat man bounced into him and knocked him off his feet. He landed in a suspicious-smelling puddle that immediately soaked into his trousers.

  The innkeeper led them expertly through the noisy crush of people to their quarters. Kael shared one dingy room with Jonathan, Chaney, and Claude. The only furniture in it were the four small beds that had been stuffed in the only way they would fit. Jonathan’s bed kept their door from opening all the way, while Kael’s was so close to the window that he thought if he rolled over he might tumble out into the street.

  He tried not to think about the brownish stains on the pillows as he tossed his rucksack down and followed the others out the door. Back in the main room, Horatio had managed to grab a large table close to the fire. They fought through the crowd and squeezed in on the bench across from him.

  He waved over a frazzled-looking girl who balanced a tray packed with tankards. “Five mince pies, four ales, and I’ll have a wine!” he shouted above the din.

  She nodded and rushed away. When she came back, both of her hands were full. She sat down a tray of steaming pies — which they emptied immediately — and handed each of them a tankard. Horatio gave her some coin and she disappeared again, swallowed up by the crowd.

  The inn might’ve seen cleaner days, but the pies were fantastic. Kael hardly breathed between forkfuls. When the dough began to dry out his mouth, he reached for his tankard. Two gulps in, he realized that his throat was on fire.

  “Haven’t been drinking long, have you?” Jonathan said with a grin while Kael tried not to cough up his lungs.

  “No,” he wheezed. “It’s — horrible.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “Nah, you get used to it. I grew up on the stuff. When my mum ran out of milk, she hitched me to a flagon!” He threw back the rest of his drink and stood. “I’m going to find some blokes drunker than me to cheat at cards. Any of you gentlemen want to tag along?”

  Chaney and Claude couldn’t have gotten up faster.

  “We have some business to attend to,” Horatio said, nodding to Kael. “But you boys go along. And Jonathan! Garron refuses to bail you out again, so see to it that you behave.”

  When the boys were gone, he turned
to Kael. “I want to buy your recipe for the chicken, m’boy. Will you sell it to me?”

  Kael, convinced that he could learn to like ale, had just swallowed another mouthful of the fiery liquid. He had to cough a few times before he could answer. “Sure, yeah. It’s all yours.”

  “No, I won’t take it for free. I’ve talked with Garron and we’ve decided that this,” he plunked a purse down upon the table, “is a fair price.”

  The sack was practically bursting with silver. He didn’t think he’d ever seen so much coin in one place. “That’s far too much,” he said, pushing it back. “It’s only chicken.”

  Horatio sputtered on his wine. “It’s not only chicken — it’s a product! The very beginning of a culinary empire.” He swiveled on his sizable bottom and glanced around. “Kyleigh! Come here and talk some sense into this boy.”

  She’d been leaning against the bar, chatting with the frazzled serving girl about something. But when she heard Horatio, she made her way towards them.

  Kyleigh didn’t have to push or throw elbows to get through the crowd: people bent out of her way. The shouting died down and laughter caught in throats. Men stared at her through drunken eyes and ran into things because they weren’t watching where they were going. One man backed up too far and tripped on an overturned chair. His tankard went flying and he swore, but everyone was too busy gaping to notice.

  Then someone on the other side of the inn shouted that one of his mates was going to try to eat three mince pies in under a minute, and the noise billowed up again as people trampled over to watch.

  Kyleigh seemed completely unaware of the spectacle she’d caused. “It’s quite a lively place, isn’t it?” she said as she sat next to Kael. “Now, what are the two of you arguing about?”

  As Horatio explained the chicken business to her, she weighed the purse in her hand. “This is a fair price,” she said.

  Kael didn’t think she understood. “How can it possibly be fair? It only takes three coppers to buy a chicken.”

  She inclined her head. “True. But if Horatio sells a single strip of chicken meat for three coppers, and he gets twenty strips out of every chicken —”

  “Then I’ll be a very rich man,” he said.

  She nodded. “He’ll make more than this at tomorrow’s market, I can promise you that.”

  Horatio sipped loudly on his wine, his cheeks much redder than they’d been before. “If you had the means to run your own shop, I’d tell you to keep it for yourself. But since you don’t, there’s no reason why we can’t share in the profit. So … will you agree to my price?”

  He really didn’t have to think about it. "All right, we have a deal." And they shook hands.

  “Wonderful!” Horatio produced a dirty bit of parchment, a quill and a well of ink from the folds of his apron. “Now, all you need to do is jot the recipe down — be specific. You can write, can't you? Good. I wondered how educated you mountain folk were. And while you're doing that, I'll order us a celebratory round of ale!"

  The frazzled serving girl brought more tankards to the table. Horatio offered Kyleigh a drink, but she politely refused.

  "I rarely touch the stuff. I prefer to keep my wits about me. Here." She took a coin out of Kael’s bag and set it on the table. "I'll keep the rest of your earnings in my room for the night. We wouldn't want some light-fingered thief to take advantage of you."

  Normally, he would have argued that he could take care of himself, but tonight he didn’t feel like arguing. He didn't know why he was suddenly being so agreeable. He also didn’t know why he felt so unusually light and happy. He took another swig of ale and figured it must have been the general excitement of the inn wearing off on him.

  *******

  Eveningwing hated being trapped indoors. The odor of bodies and men’s filth was so thick that his lungs almost drowned in it. Noise clawed at his ears and the roof above his head was far too close.

  Why did humans always have to travel in flocks? They were much quieter — and easier to find — when they were alone.

  He watched from a corner of the rowdy room, hiding in the shadows. The tankard in his hand was only a prop — something to help him blend in. He never once brought it to his lips.

  Had anyone been sober enough to look, they might have noticed something strange about the boy who watched them. His trousers were on backwards, for one, and the rest of his tattered outfit was far too big. His feet were bare and dirty. Above his left ankle, an iron shackle rubbed a raw, red line into his skin. But odd as his attire was, it wasn’t the oddest thing about him.

  He kept the front of his hair long to try and shadow them, but there was still no denying the fact that his eyes weren’t human. Bottomless black pupils ringed by solid yellow-brown irises stared relentlessly. He captured every movement of the humans’ teetering bodies, every expression on their swollen faces. Not a single mole, freckle or scar escaped his notice.

  Every face he saw, he ran against a memory. It wasn’t his memory, but one that had been entrusted to him. All across the Kingdom, his brothers and sisters waited in towns just like this one, stalking the inns and meeting places — looking for her.

  A loud noise drew his eyes to the opposite side of the inn. Someone knocked over a table and the racket hushed the roar of human revelry for a moment. Then cheers rang out as the crowd made way for someone to walk through.

  A thin young man with bothered reddish hair was the first to appear. Eveningwing didn’t recognize his straight nose, brown eyes, or the crooked mouth he wore — but quickly memorized his face, taking note of his flushed cheeks and the way he slurred his words. The young man had an arm draped around the shoulders of the person carrying him — a young woman. When she showed her teeth in a way the humans used to show happiness, Eveningwing stood straighter. He could hardly believe his luck.

  While he didn’t recognize the man, he certainly recognized the woman carrying him: stark green eyes, hair like night, her mouth as she nodded to the clapping humans — it mirrored the one in his memory.

  The Dragongirl!

  No sooner did he think it, than the shackle around his ankle grew hot and began to hum.

  He dropped his tankard. The untouched drink splattered on the floor as it hit the ground and onto the boots of some nearby revelers. They looked up in annoyance, but Eveningwing was already gone.

  He burst through the back door of the inn. He pushed past a bunch of slobbering, singing humans and made a dash for the stables. The horses watched him with curious black eyes as he fell to the floor. He groaned and bit his lip as the change began, clinging to a single thought:

  He must not scream.

  Every bone in his body cracked at once, as if a giant’s foot stomped him flat. He felt the broken, jagged edges glance across his muscles, raking fiery lines down his back and limbs as they slid into place. Needles stabbed into every pore as thousands of feathers sprouted from his skin, tearing him where they ripped through.

  Bloodfang said it wouldn’t be much longer — and he comforted himself with this thought. Soon, Eveningwing’s two bodies would become one. Then the change wouldn’t hurt so badly. Until then, he must be strong.

  When the change ended, the boy was gone. A hawk lay on the mound of tattered clothes in his place. His wings were the color of storm clouds, the dark flecks on his chest looked like interlocking scales of armor. All that remained of the boy were the yellow-brown eyes beneath the hawk’s feathery brow.

  He raised his wings and, with one powerful beat, shot into the air. Crow’s Cross became nothing but a smudge as Eveningwing rose. Every few wing beats, he would let out a screech: a call that only his brothers and sisters would know the meaning of. He told them of his find, he told them to warn the swordbearers.

  He got closer to Midlan with each stroke, and the King’s orders echoed louder in his head: Find the Dragongirl, return to me. Find the Dragongirl, return to me.

  Chapter 15

  A Hasty Escape

 
Kael had actually been having a decent dream: it involved green meadows and a cool summer breeze. He’d been lying on his back, just enjoying the world around him, when he saw a man approaching from the distance. He recognized him and sat up to wave —

  Then an icy cascade of water fell from the sky and knocked him from his sleep. He coughed and spat out a mouthful of water, gasping for a clean breath. When he realized he wasn’t in any real danger of drowning, he shoved the wet hair from his face and found Jonathan — who was standing beside his bed with an empty bucket in his hands.

  Kael could have hit him. “What in Kingdom’s —”

  But the sound of his own voice was like a dagger in the head. He collapsed back on his pillow and suddenly felt like he was going to be sick.

  “It’s the bane of every bloke about town, I’m afraid.” Jonathan’s words slapped against his skull. “It’s the ale that always gets the last laugh. And I believe you set a new record last night, mate — twenty-four tankards! Now that’s nothing to sneeze at. Would’ve probably killed a lesser man.”

  Kael wanted to tell him to shut up. But he was afraid to even open his eyes, let alone his mouth.

  “Here, have a swig of this and you’ll be on your feet in no time.”

  He cracked his eyes open enough to take the cup from Jonathan’s hand. He threw the whole thing back at once, because he thought that if he dragged it out he’d be violently ill. It tasted like something Jonathan scraped out of the inside of his boot. His stomach balked as the slimy liquid oozed down his throat, and he fought the urge to gag.

  “Just like mum used to make, eh?” His booming laugh made Kael contemplate murder. “Sorry for the abrupt wake up, but there’s trouble in town. Garron’s given the order to move out immediately.” Jonathan was leaning next to the window, peering down into the streets. Kael found the strength to sit up and look.